Hawkeye Moved into My House One Day
by Ezra Cross
Summary: What if Clint Barton had a choice in what story became a part of his life? What if he was the muse hanging over your shoulder, wondering what sort of Hell you were about to drive him into? Introducing now the life of Clint and the writer who continues to drag him through horrible situations.
1. Introductions

So, this story actually started years ago. Back in 2012 to be exact. Everyone meets there muse somewhere, and this is how i "met" Clint. I wrote this little blurb back in 2015 for my facebook followers, but never put it here. Now, this story has sort of taken a mind of its own with multiple chapters. I guess this counts as a self insert, but the "writer" here is only loosely based on experience and even she takes on a character of her own that is not essentially me.

So enjoy.

* * *

 ** _Hawkeye Moved into My House One Day..._**

 **CHAPTER 1: Introductions**

It was early May. I decided to go out for the night in the same fashion I did almost evening I wanted to be by myself. First a movie, then dinner, and a long drive home with my favorite music blasting and me singing like a royal idiot. No one to judge the movie I watched, no one to look disapprovingly across the table when I finished a massive dessert all by myself, and no one slapping my hand off the radio dials from my occasional binge of country music or Miley Cyrus.

That night I went out to see an incredibly popular movie (we all know it was Avengers) and I left the movie theater with an absolute fire in my belly for that peculiar star who had so few lines, but such an imaginative, mysterious background.

As I sat to my meal I thought about that archer. We had so many things in common, I considered. I loved archery, and so did he. That seemed like enough to develop a friendship in my book. Pretty soon I started something that I was rather guilty for in restaurants. I ordered my meal, hunted down a pen in my purse, and dug out an old receipt. Putting pen to paper, I began to **write** out a few notes that, unfortunately, usually sent up a red flag to my waiter. I can't tell you how many times I've been mistaken for a food critic. My food hit the table and I glanced up to see him... The man who consumed my fascination.

Clint Barton had a vaguely disoriented look, as if he couldn't decide how exactly he ended up at my table in the corner of an Applebee's in Nowhere, New Jersey. I had to admit, I felt the same. His eyes, crystal blue like a spring morning, glanced around the room once or twice before settling on me. I pushed my food aside to better consider him.

I saw pain there. A deep hurt, a concern, and confusion. He'd just won a battle against an alien race, and yet there was still so much he didn't understand. What happened to those friends he had lost? Where was he going to end up? Was he a monster? So many questions scrolled across his face like a neon billboard in a convenience store window. He might have saved the world, but that didn't mean he wasn't still a man.

I leaned forward, stacking my chin on top of my fist to keep my voice just between the two of us. "I feel like there's a story hiding in you." I said to him.

"I'm not sure where to start," he replied.

I glanced down at my sorry excuse for a proper writing implement. Like a newspaper reporter caught without her notebook. "I guess I would say to start at the beginning. After all, it's not like I know you."

Those cerulean clouds dashed across the table and locked onto my dismal hazel ones. "That might take a while."

I shrugged. "I'm not working on anything else."

"Can I trust you?" he asked. Some part of him hopeful, another caught in his own skepticism.

I edged my strawberry kiwi lemonade across the table to rest between his hands. "What have you got to lose? Besides... This could be fun."

I edged my strawberry kiwi lemonade across the table to rest between his hands. "What have you got to lose? Besides... This could be fun."

* * *

That day, I wrote Lithium Hawkeye, on a receipt, a couple of napkins, and later retyped it on my computer. Clint followed me home and on many other adventures to come.

Please review! this won't be the final chapter:)


	2. Vibranium Hawkeye and Facing Loki

Since the last chapter was so short, here's the next.

* * *

 ** _Hawkeye Moved into My House One Day..._**

 **CHAPTER 2: Vibranium Hawkeye and facing Loki**

He sat on my bed, the very end, as his knee braced the window up while a damp hot air blew up the five stories to reach us. It made me nervous seeing him sitting there. As if at any moment he could accidentally tumble right out onto the pavement below. My computer sat on the faux oak desk in front of me. The page was mostly blank where I had attempted to start writing. And stopped. And started. And deleted it all over again.

"Make a decision," he whispered. There was no accusation in his voice, no frustration, which was strange for once. Usually he was so impatient I couldn't breathe. I'd sit for hours, typing away, frantic in my quest to shut him up. Now my muse, my wonderfully annoying inspiration sat there enjoying the breeze while I labored fruitlessly for him. I turned in my chair. A glare piercing my eyes.

"This would be easier if you helped."

Clint Barton didn't look at me. He didn't feed into the spite I had for him. I'd prefer it if he did. "The hot dog guy's out. You hungry?"

"No, I'm tired. I have a lab in a hour and I'm supposed to be studying for finals. I don't have time to do all this for you. Everyone liked the first one, what if they hate my new stuff?"

Now he deigned to look at me. "Twenty thousand views."

"One person could have looked at it a thousand times. It was probably me."

"A hundred thousand for the first book."

"I know."

"You're freaking out for no reason."

I turned away from him. Obviously, he wasn't going to be any help. I heard his weight shift off the end of my mattress as he approached. His hands fell on my shoulders. Warm fingers, heated by the sun, massaged into my skin. He leaned forward, the scent of him filling my nostrils as he analyzed the page. A hand vanished from my skin as he stretched forward, hit the arrow key and picked up where I left off.

"Vibranium Hawkeye. Catchy."

"Stop that," I whispered, trying to pull away.

His grip tightened to keep me seated. "I'm just saying, you've got a theme going. I didn't say it was bad." He continued to read over my shoulder. A shudder moved through him, something deep moving from the center of his soul outward until I could feel it move through me. His eyes went over all the words, devoured them, felt the power as they moved him. In a breathy whisper, he said, "Loki."

I wanted to see him but feared turning around. "I'm sorry-"

"No," he cut me off with sharpness in his voice. His fingers relaxed and slowly he pulled away from me. He inhaled, held his breath deep in his chest and released it in a single long exhale. "No, it's good. You should keep that."

"Are you sure?" I asked, watching as the blinking bar flashed at the end of the sentence. "I can change it. I'm not sure how, but I can still change it. If it's too much, too soon, then I can-"

"Don't change it," he interrupted. His face was full of hard edges. Anger, disappointment and injections of fear crossed the solid steel of his eyes. It took a lot to break him. I knew that. I'd pushed him to the edge twice now, and I was asking for him to cross into something he hadn't dealt with before. Facing Loki was what he feared most.

"Maybe you should change it," he said after mulling the idea over.

I'd started typing again. My fingers moved seamlessly over silken keys until Clint reached out and pressed into my forearm, forcing me to stop. I glanced over. He'd already begun to change into something both strange and familiar. No longer was he in street clothes, lazy and breezy for the island air. Now he wore his Avengers' uniform. His bow sat nearby. Arrows in his quiver. Sewer grime was smeared across his face from the subterranean world of New York City.

"I don't want to do this," he whispered.

"Do you trust me?" I asked.

A knock came to the door. Neither of us paid any attention.

"I do, but-"

"Then trust me. I know what I'm doing. For now, at least. I'll probably change it twenty times, but we'll get to the end together."

The knocking persisted.

Barton gulped. "Is that him?" he breathed.

"I think so," I replied.

He stood, bow in hand, eyes fixed on the door, the shadow of someone beyond it. I'd stranded him in Africa once. I sent him to the hospital twice. This was different. I didn't know how it would go. It wasn't clear and right in my mind. The letters and words jumbled together in pages I hadn't written, feeling I had yet to feel. My fingers poised over the keys, locked in the images rolling through my mind as Clint stepped near the door. That voice that came through from the hall emerged from my own soul, a fact that brought a sense of unrelenting fear along with a sudden excitement.

" _No one is coming_ ," Loki's voice seethed, " _And no one is going to save you_."

Clint's grip tightened on his bow. His jaw set firmly, molars grinding together. "Sometimes I hate you," he whispered. I wasn't sure if he was talking to me, Loki, or perhaps even himself.

"It'll be all right," I promised. "It had to happen sometimes."

Now he threw a sidelong glance over his shoulder. "This is it, isn't it? The end?"

"It's only supposed to be a trilogy. This is book three."

"If I said it's been fun, I'd be lying a little."

Loki's fist pounded into the door frame, ravenous in his urgency to be heard.

"It was a little fun," I said smiling. "I'm sorry."

He turned up a corner of his mouth, his snarky grin ever present. "Sorry for what? Sticking me in a plane crash? Shooting me in the side? Having Tony strangle me?"

"Natasha."

His eyebrows raised.

"She's going to shoot you in the head."

Clint's jaw dropped open. He turned around to protest when suddenly the door shot open under Loki's heavy kick. There he stood, Asgard's sordid son in all the glory that made him a heartthrob to villain lovers the world over. He was taller than I thought, his hair slicked back like feathers around his neck. He spread his arms wide, invitingly, smiling with rows of perfect teeth.

"Barton," he said.

Without missing a beat, Clint pulled a punch and let it sail forward. He cracked Loki across the jaw so hard the Frost Giant stumbled and fell over backward to hit the floor.

Clint turned on me. He pointed his finger. "This is not over. Natasha is not shooting me in the head."

I smiled awkwardly.

"Bad! Bad writer, bad!" he admonished. He stepped over Loki's prone form, crossed the dorm kitchen and yanked the outside door open. It slammed shut in his wake.

Loki, left alone, lifted up to nurse his jaw. "I haven't seen him this lively since he found out he was cast in Thor. You best not disappoint me."

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hehehehehehe:)

Stay tuned

more to come


	3. Where We first met, 5ys Later

this was a long time coming, mostly as I wasn't sure where I wanted to go next.

Did I want a chapter for every Hawkeye Initiative story in existence?

Did I want to ignore all those stories, wait until some later date, some later inspiration, and write them then?

Did i just want to get to the meat and potatoes of the fun I want to have?

The answer: the last one. So i am ignoring all that came before and taking up here where I like. One day I might return back, but, not right now.

* * *

 ** _Hawkeye Moved into My House One Day..._**

 **CHAPTER 3: Where we first met, 5 years later.**

I walked into the back of the bar, set my things to one side along the oak laminated top, and slunk into a chair. From across the room, the barkeep nodded in my direction, a gentle silent acknowledgement of my existence. He knew better than to talk, to approach and expect some sort of conversation. I wasn't that kind of traveler.

I opened my satchel. It was fairly new, still had its tags and silica filled compartments from whatever leather goods store it came from. I hadn't bothered searching it through yet. Three days ago, I'd found it lying beside a dumpster at my apartment complex. Little used and unwanted, it made the perfect addition to my sparse possessions. From it, I removed the new laptop I'd saved up for and bought from the local Best Buy. Better for typing, the online reviews boasted. Better for everything a writer needed. The lack of hard drive space could be compared to once driving an SUV and downsizing to a Fiat – it was relatively nonexistent. But it was light, battery lasted from sun up until sundown, and I could use it in tight spaces. That's all I really needed.

Without speaking, the barkeep, I think his name might have been John, dropped off a white square napkin and planted a sprite and cherry flavored drink on top. They call it a Shirley Temple, though I didn't know why. I automatically went diving for the candied cherry, removed it, and left it solo on the oak bar.

I wasn't alone long. He spied me out from across the room, his bird-like gaze capturing me from a distance the way he could do so well. I glanced over the top of my screen at him. The only invitation he needed was our eyes connecting for that split moment. He stood.

I didn't move my things aside. If he was determined to seek me out, then this time he was going to work for it. It was easy before. As easy as talking to an old friend every night before bed. We'd speak for hours, day and night and all the times in between. I should be focusing on my life but instead I'm focused on him. My memories of us together, those crystal blue eyes piercing into my soul, becoming darker the more we worked together, struck me to my core. I'd robbed him of many things in life, and much the same way I stole from him, he took little pieces of me. Some might say he was my muse. In many ways, he was also my lover.

He sat down to my left, effectively blocking off our part of the bar. In the horseshoe shape, we were the very end, bordering the wall of local hockey posters and Lacrosse sticks. He turned his chair to face me. His large body, built muscles, made to pull back bowstrings and take lives, draped half on the back of his stool, half across the bar. At first, I didn't pay him any attention. We'd been playing this game too long. This flirtation. These midnight texts back and forth that never led to anything. I said I was through with him. He called me a liar. I shoved it all right back. We were bad for each other, him and me. Why couldn't he just let it go?

"Been a while," Clint Barton said. He had the face of Jeremy Renner. We all knew it, saw it, and yet I let that reality slip away while this fantasy bore me up. I swallowed through clenched lips and tensed.

"I asked if I could trust you with my story. You remember that?" he prodded. I could hear the accusation in his voice. A gruff, hollow anger that reflected at me.

I dipped my chin in a nod. "Ye—Yeah. I remember."

"You said that I could."

My hands hovered over the laptop keys. I deftly wondered if I should start typing, even gibberish, just to keep my fingers distracted. Maybe he would go away. Maybe he would stop haunting me, following me, like some ghost I couldn't shake. I told myself our days were done. I'd moved on, why couldn't he see that?

I felt his hand brush my arm and an involuntary shiver swept through me. What was that phrase? Like someone walked over my grave? The cold despondence in him hurt more than his appearance ever could.

This was our place. The place we first met. I was young, five years younger than I was right now. I'd stepped through the front door of the Applebee's in the middle of nowhere New Jersey expecting nothing but a hot meal and a good desert. Then I saw him for the first time. He was scared, lonely, terror in his eyes. He looked like a shell-shocked soldier returned from his first deployment. He sat at my table by accident. I'd been writing on a receipt at the time, nursing my drink. Clint Barton, Hawkeye, sitting at my table. At first I, couldn't believe it.

Now that he was sitting beside me again, all I could think of was how to get away. To pull back. Retreat into myself and abandon him forever. We'd had five years to get it right. To tell his side of the story. To see what it meant to be an Avenger. Twenty-one tales long, three series worth of it, countless little off shoots of him and me, striking out against the world, each other, and beyond. We'd worked to the point of exhaustion. To the point when our lives meant less apart than they did together. I loved him and I hated him and I didn't know which was better.

"It's over," I told him, trying to bury that old swirling pit of agony whenever I felt him near. I resisted turning back to that face, those eyes, which held mine. "We had a good ride. We did a lot together. But it's over. It's got to be over."

He leaned closer to me. Close enough I could feel his breath dance along the short hairs of my neck. I'd written him lovers. Laura, Natasha, even new and strange fantasies he could have never dreamed up for himself. I'd given him families. Children. Friends. I'd given him so much. And then, I took it all away. I killed him.

"Pea—"

"Don't call me that," I snapped, turning to him. He knew my names. All of them. The old and the new. They'd lost their importance and we both knew how.

His turquoise eyes gripped my soul. "I'm sorry," he whispered. He wasn't sorry for himself or for anything he'd done. He could see the scars on me. The ones I feel in many ways I'd caused myself. His fingers were cold as they traced the outlines of cuts. "These are new," he whispered.

I pulled my arm sharply away. "He called me again," I growled.

"I thought you got rid of him."

"Well, I didn't." I ground my teeth together as my bottom jaw attempted to give me away. It wanted to shake, to quiver. I should have brought something to hide in, like a coat or my oversized college hoodie. Then he might not see the wounds the other man inflicted on me. The one I let get too close. The one who knew how to hurt me in all the right ways. A friend and a devil wrapped in one and I'd fallen into the trap. Some say words didn't hurt. For an author, words were physical blows we carried with us. Cuts along our skin that if tended, would heal, but if left to fester they'd rot right down to our bones. I'd let the flames get too close and I got myself burned by them. I'd let the hate of them fester in, blow over my soul, until I was crisp and ash. I could smell the sulfur and I know he could too. This was real. These blows were real. They weren't dreamed up, trumped up, imagined abrasions against me and despite all Clint wanted to try, he couldn't defend me against a harsh and cruel world, against real villains and monsters, against a lover who was loved no longer.

"Why didn't you find me?" he whispered.

"What would you have done?" I asked.

"I don't know," he shook his head, dejected, and said, "I didn't want to go, but you pushed me away. We had something good, we _were_ something good. Everyone saw that," he went on. He reached in front of me, picking up my drinking, plunking in the straw, and stirring. He set it back beside my hand. Then he grabbed the discarded cherry and popped it into his mouth. I could hear him chew on the stem.

"They gave me kids," he whispered. He sighed and shook his head. "Three of them. Shot me in the side and regrew my skin. It still feels different. Plasticy," he lifted the edge of his shirt, displaying the discolored look of the new flesh beneath. "Had this speed guy go off and got himself killed for me. I liked him for about three seconds."

Unable to resist much longer, I reached out for my drink and sucked the straw between my lips. He continued to watch me.

"They arrested me. All of us fought. Some spider kid dropped out of the sky and kicked Cap's a—" he stopped himself. "That's right, you don't like language."

"Stop," I warned, setting the glass down again.

"I don't get it. Five years. Five years and you just stop, because of some guy. All this time I've been here. I've been waiting. I didn't walk out on us—"

"Stop!" I seethed, hissing at him. Fire flared in my eyes. "I remember this being a lot easier between us, you know that? I remember us staying up late, writing until two-am and losing ourselves to it. Aren't you sick of that? Of the things I did to you?"

"What, like giving me a family and killing them all off? Letting me be the world's best marksman and making me go blind? That stuff?"

I nodded defiantly. "You could have it easier with a lot of other authors. Kid gloves. People who just want you to roost all day, sit in the background and brood or be witty, or just not be there at all."

"You know some people want me to hook up with Tony, right?" He said it with that charismatic charm, the one that sent a corner of his mouth turning upward and his little chuckle into the air. I wanted to hate him.

"Why can't you just find someone else?" I asked honestly.

Now his mood shifted. He turned away from me. His hands played along the grooves in the wood, tracing the lines with his fingers. "You were stupid," he eventually said. "You let someone get close for the first time. I get it. I've been there. It was your first time, you thought you loved him, blah-blah-blah. You told him about yourself. Deep stuff. Personal stuff. You let him in and you got burned. You had him. I had Loki. When I needed someone, I found you. You told my side. We were a _good_ team." He looked back at me, "I think I helped you a little bit too. You needed me, and I was there. You got stressed, then you threw me into a plane crash, or a fire fight, or something else I couldn't get my stupid self out of. I took it, because we were good. Quid Pro quo. I help you, you help me."

"Me having a bad day shouldn't translate to me shooting you in the head," I pointed out.

He shrugged. "Yeah, but you always brought me back." He nudged me in the arm. "Always."

I threw my open hand at the computer screen, the painfully white, empty, document I'd been staring at before he decided to approach me again. "I don't even know what to say! I've been working on other stuff, good stuff, and I haven't done this since—"

"Stop it," he laughed, pushing out of his chair. He stood behind me. I could feel his hands press into my shoulders, massaging away the knots beneath his fingers. He brushed over the bandages, the old wounds I wouldn't let heal. The fragments of myself I let grow into fissures. They hurt each time his fingers brushed against them.

"Start at the beginning," he whispered to me. I set my hands on the key pad, as if waiting for some magic to rain from the sky and force me to work again.

"Don't think," he persuaded, his words whispering into my ear like a lover's call. He worked something around in his mouth and removed the cherry stem. He sat it down on the napkin, next to my drink, with two perfect knots in the center of the stem. I'll never know how he does it.

"We're stuck together," he said, "So just write. Write it all. Write whatever you want. Because whatever it is, it'll be better than Natasha romancing the Hulk."

* * *

ok, so some of you have read this chapter already.

for that fact, I will be posting the next chapter today.

and while, yes, this is Clint vs Author, this is still fiction. So don't worry my over-protective audience. I have never allowed anyone to put their hands on me:) Someone tried once, and i nearly broke their arm.


	4. Introducing the Roommates Post Bushfir

For those not sure where this book is headed. This chapter is where this book is headed.

* * *

 ** _Hawkeye Moved into My House One Day..._**

 **CHAPTER 4: Introducing the Roommates. Post Bushfire.**

I felt his eyes burrowing into the side of my skull, his judgmental burning, blue eyes. Like icicles set on fire that didn't melt. His breath flushed across my skin. I could feel the heat from him. The burning. The twinge of anger.

I glanced over, unable to stand the anxiety any longer. "You told me to just write whatever I want!" I shot at him. "Your words, no mine!"

The corner of his mouth upturned in a snarky grin. His hair was filthy brown, still intermixed in ash and rubble. Dirt smeared his face, making circles around his eyes where he'd rubbed them clean. His hand pressed against the bleeding wound on the side of his chest. I hadn't really tended to that yet. I was distracted, by work, by life, by everything that happens in between. Binge watching TV, feeding myself, my cats, and my introverted ways. Distracted by inspiration as fickle as a new lover.

"I never said I was mad," he whispered.

"I hate you," I shot at him. I stood from the keyboard and went to him. He was sitting in my favorite chair. A leather, four-footed thing I'd gotten for free when I moved out of my folk's place. He was too tall for it. His legs were stretched far out in front of him, knees bent. The flesh beneath the pant legs were torn and covered in splinters, grit, and acacia thorns.

I picked up a handful of fast food napkins off the counter and knelt at his side. I pressed them against the steadily flowing trail of blood seeping into my old pillow he'd shoved behind his back. He winced as I held the napkins in place. A long, slow hiss escaped his lips.

I swallowed stiffly. My eyes flicked up to his. "I'm sorry," I said.

"No, you're not," he replied. He wasn't mad. It would be easier if he was.

"Yes I am. I told you this was going to happen. I have a problem. We have a problem! We're no good together, not when this is what happens every single time," my emotion got the better of me. I set my head down into the cool leather arm of the chair. I felt like a puddle of emotions I never wanted him to see.

He patted my head as if I was some little kid in his story books. "Shut up, Pea—"

"Stop calling me that!" I snapped.

His gentle pat turned into a fist that wrapped around the strands of my hair. He forced my head up. It wasn't hard, just enough to force me to face him. "Peach," he said, daring me.

I pulled tugged my hair out of his hand. "Stop that. And stop coming here, and stop bleeding on my things, and stop bothering me!"

His steady smirk returned. "No."

"You are impossible." I let go of the napkins, let him deal with his own bleeding wounds, and sat back on my footstool. I pressed my palm against my forehead and desperately tried to pull myself back together.

"If you want me to stop bleeding in your house, you better start writing me into a hospital. I didn't pick a fight with a wee mini-hulk, _you_ did. Now I'm the one shot because of it. Who shot me anyway? You never wrote that part." He tried to sit up a little better, more comfortable, but he only sank back and winced.

"Rigs did," I said.

"Before he hulked out?"

I nodded.

"You didn't say that."

"I thought about it. But you're right. I didn't."

"Not everyone is in your head, Pea. You've got to show them the whole picture. Otherwise, then what's the point?"

"I don't know!" I snapped. I didn't mean it, and I could see on his face he knew that too. It saved me the disgrace of a second, half-hearted, apology. "Look," I started again, "I'm just . . . I'm out of practice. Life got in the way, I have my own stuff going on-"

"You keep saying that—"

"I know, and so do you," I pointed out, looking up at him. "And you keep saying it, because I think it. And I think it, because it's true. Things have changed for me. Big things. Things I regret, things I can't just take back. This is hard for me. I'm not the same writer anymore, Clint."

"No one expects you to be."

I shifted uncomfortably on the hard stool and sighed shaking my head. "It sure as hell feels like it."

"Potty mouth."

I smiled.

"Why not pick something up again? Something you used to do? How about all those abandoned orphans, some of those were good stories in the making." He motioned to his side, "After you deal with this, first. I mean, I don't want to sit bleeding here forever."

"I've tried."

"Try harder."

"You're a jerk, you know that?"

"Yeah. You made me that way."

I pointed a finger at him, "No, no. I didn't make you. Someone else did. Someone smarter, and way richer, than I am ever going to be. I adopted you. You are an adopted character who just showed up in my life one day. I have other projects, other characters, to work on, I'll have you know, and I _did_ make them."

That caused a glow in his eyes. He pulled his legs back, moved his body up, and pressed the old napkins a little harder into the blood flowing down his side. Only a few inches of warming air separated us. "Did you forget that I introduced you to him?"

My voice was small. I knew exactly the "him" Clint was referring to. "N—no, I didn't forget."

"I know you like him. Him, your new friends, their world. I know if you had the choice of your life or theirs, you'd pick them. You'd wall yourself up in this place and never come out again. It's not good for you. You need to breathe fresh air, at least once in a while."

"Are you comparing yourself with oxygen?"

He sat back, hissing at the pain I brought him. The burns on his flesh were black and new, angry, gnarled scars just waiting to form if I let them. I could do whatever I wanted to him, within reason. We had our limits, they were his as much as they were mine. Agreements, nonverbal ones, we had formed over the years working together. When I first met Clint, he was a terrified ball of pent up fury, fresh from battle, an unsure where his life would drag him next. We'd done so much together. Like Dr. Who and his Companion, only between us I didn't know who was actually the one in control.

"I changed my name," I admitted, unsure why.

His eyebrow arched.

"I wanted to hide."

"How's that going for you?"

I shrugged one shoulder. It was a habit I'd given to him first, and now couldn't help but use it in my own life. "I don't know. It was a good idea at the time. I felt like I had to, needed to, and I think I did. It's just—"

"Lonely?"

I nodded subtly.

"You did that once already. You liked being Peach. Grab that dusty old guy out of your closet, he'll tell you."

I laughed despite myself, thinking back to the old muses in my life. It felt like forever since anyone had called me the names Clint remembered. Before Clint, there were others. Britt Reid, Qui-Gon, and going back to the beginning, where it all started, there was Trunks. Clint hadn't met any of the others. They weren't friends, didn't know each other. I'd finished with them before I moved onto Barton and never looked back.

"You were a different writer then too," he pointed out.

"I know."

He reached over to the old cedar wood table beside him and picked up the new, cheap, laptop I'd bought. It was lighter, less than three pounds, and had virtually nothing on it besides the internet and my stories. In some ways, many ways, I'd bought it for him. An easier way to write in public. A laptop with fast keys, though inaccurate most times, which cared more about me keeping the flow going and less about grammar. My speed typer.

He indicated the large bean bag chair to his right. "You can't have this chair. I'm claiming it. And I'm staying right here until you patch me up. Now sit down, shut up, turn on some music and write me out of this. I'm sick of bleeding on your floor.

As he spoke, a silent figure appeared from the hall. He leaned on the wall, watching the two of us curiously. His eyes were a raven-dark. Hair as white as fresh snow. He was short at one time, but with changes and inspiration grew taller, leaner, and more stoic. He was wearing a rumple of old clothes I'd set out in case he wanted to appear less like the otherworldly character he was.

Clint shot up instantly at seeing him. "Oh, no you don't! It's my turn! The last time you ran off with her, I got stuck in a plane crash in the middle of a jungle. I blame you for that."

The character smiled. "Sam," he said.

"That is not my name," Clint snapped. "I didn't approve it."

"You don't approve anything," I said, taking the laptop from him. I collapsed into the bean bag chair and watched them.

"That's because I will not be wrapped up in a tight little box and a little ribbon for you two to play with!" Clint declared. The force of his words jarred his wound. He bit the inside of his lip and rested back again.

The second figure moved over to him and sat on the stool I had abandoned. He inspected Clint's injury inquisitively, then his eyes crossed to me. "Bad?" he asked.

"Flesh wound. He'll live," I replied. "Now both of you shut up. I'm working."

"On who?" the two of them asked in unison. They exchanged glares.

"Clint was here first. I'll just finish it up and get back to what I was doing." I looked over at the two of them. I hated juggling two muses at one time. I prided myself on my focus, my razor-sharp attention to detail. The purity of my work, grammar mistakes included, which transported my readers into my own mind. This wasn't an easy break. This was messy and desperate. These were trials and errors and more errors than successes.

The elf sitting on the footstool smiled a little. "It's all right. I'll share."

* * *

So, plans for the future: The odd couple.

Clint, an Elf, and an Author live in an apartment together, trying to divide their time between juggling real life and getting their author to write more about them.

Fun shall be ensuing.


	5. Waverly 1

Guest:Okay, waiting for the next chapter. I most sincerely hope you will not leave this one unfinished as well.

-This review has haunted me for months. MONTHS. I have completely eliminated like 1/2 of my stories, only kept the finished ones (except for Where's Clint, because I sort of still have hope to finish that) and i refuse to post anything from here out that is not 100% finished prior to starting the post. all because of this review.

Jesuslovesmarina:Oh my gosh, if this is where this story is headed, I am ALL for it...have you seen Nim's Island? It is such a good movie. This reminds me of it, except this is better. Oh, yes, and inspiration is surely a fickle thing! :P

-I always love when you review! I haven't seen that yet but I'm going to add it to the list now!

m klindt: I love you give your tormenting muses conflicts within you. AND do not give up on our archer. love ms

-Give up? Never! Go and hide under a rock from people and my feelings for months and/or years? yes. yes that happens.

* * *

This takes place right after posting the Drinking Bird

Based on legit, nearly word-for-word true events. And I'm posting crappy pictures on the Author FB page. enjoy.

* * *

 **CHAPTER 5: Waverly 1**

"You don't have to go," I reminded him, grabbing the few stray items from my room and placing them in my suitcase. My mental checklist continued to tick, calculating all the things I had, and didn't have, packed.

Across from me Clint Barton sat on the edge of my counter. He seemed oddly out of place there. Hunched and stooped as he always was, he tended to fill a room with his presence when he so chose, and lately that became a daily occurrence. Behind him stood Rinon. That quiet, stalwart elf, whom I had devoted so much of my time at Clint's expense. A fact Barton did not let me forget.

"I just don't get why you have to go at all," Clint replied.

"It's for work. We all agreed. New job. More time to write. Look, you even have your new story going on. Rinon's first book is almost done, we have this new place. Everyone wins." I bargained, and failed, to convince him my point.

His scowl darkened. "I know that. I want to know why there. There, Iowa. I know you want to go to my hometown. I see it on your face. I can read your mind. Why the hell do you want to drag us there?"

A sigh built in my chest. Fortunately, it was never released. I feared his wrath far too much for that. "I never said I'd stop in Waverly. And I don't have a choice. Work is sending me to Des Moines. I won't have a car, Waverly is hours away, and I told you that you don't have to come at all."

Clint hiked a thumb over his shoulder at the elf behind him. "You're taking Rinon!"

"He's not raising a fuss about it and he wasn't born there."

"Raising a fuss?" Clint asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper. A vacant expression shielded his eyes from me. "Is that all you think this is? A fuss? That's all this means to me?"

I uttered a curse under my breath and before I had a chance to correct the mistake, Clint had already slid down from the counter and stormed through the front door. I half stood to follow him, called his name, but the silent elf stepped in. He raised his hand in supplication, tipped it to his brow, and dashed out after Barton. I listened as two sets of hurried footprints fled down the new wooden stairs leading to the apartment. When they were out of range, my sigh released.

This wasn't easy on any of us, and I knew that more than Clint "Hawkeye" Barton would give me credit for. We'd already been through so much together, he'd waited patiently over my shoulder or lounged on my bed every night I struggled through my education and prodded his gentle encouragements my way. When I finally snatched my diploma away from my school, he never abandoned me. Onward we forged across the continental states together from Milwaukee to Kansas, New York State and everything in between. He was constant. Patient . . . a smile formed on my lips . . . perhaps he wasn't always patient but constant, yes.

Within the first few months of my taking a real job out of school it became obvious all my time had been snatched away. Nights were spent on cases not stories. I hadn't read a good novel in nearly a year, and it was almost twice that since I had written anything of merit. I could sense his impatience and, in many ways, his desperate panic setting in. Where Clint once stood, now a new muse rose to power and, perhaps the worst atrocity yet, he was being overlooked elsewhere.

It was no surprise to either of us that his movie life continued. After all, I contributed a part-time interest in his character creation while other more influential stars took over what society expected of him. Unfortunately, that turned out as lucky as an upside-down penny. His character had been demolished from the ground up. Left to the background shadows of a storyline increasingly spiraling into nowhere. With each new blockbuster, he desperately sought to find himself even mentioned in casual fashion only to have that interest ruined. Still, we hoped for the next one. And continue to hope, despite all evidence to the contrary.

I knew his desperation. I could feel it with that electric touch he sent to my fingertips. He needed something, someone, to care about him and without me who was left to do it? Would he disintegrate back to the background scripts and quick quips of side characters? Every day doors closed in on him, Matt Frack, Joss Whedon, the Russo brothers . . . Even a stint staring opposite Deadpool in comic form wasn't enough to cajole his character to a life force again. Despite all of this, there was one place I would never expect Clint to go.

The city of Waverly existed in a small spit of land in the middle of cornfed, cow bred Iowa. The population there had very little idea that Clint Barton hailed from the city at all. No purple flags lined the streets, the mayor himself had been interviewed once, and had never heard of the archery crusader. When asked why Clint came from Waverly at all, no one seemed to have any idea. One creator suggested it was because an illustrator lived in Wisconsin, and so knew where Iowa was, and picked there. Frankly, any 5th grader can decide where Iowa is too.

I had no choice to go. In the last three months, I had traveled all over the country by planes, trains, and automobiles to complete all the necessary courses required for this new career venture. Until a week prior, I had no idea Iowa was even on the table at all. Now, there I sat, packing for a trip to the one place Clint Barton would not easily return.

He could sense my disappointment. We'd been working so well together lately. Rinon offered to take a back seat, allowing Clint to shine once more and, hopefully soon, complete a few more stories in a new arc the three of us rather enjoyed the spirit of. If he didn't come, my inspiration would wander and, as we had already experienced time and again, that inspiration might never come back. I was partly to blame for it. I had already dragged him through the terrible memories of that dusty town twice. I'd highlighted for him in intricate details the beatings his father had given him, the love and anger he spurred against his mother, the carelessness of sizzling summer days spent fishing in the creek, and the horrible pain of losing both his parents in a tragic accident. I'd cut those wounds open with bare knives. Laid them out for him time and time again. Each one building him up to the strength and trust we'd achieved now and yet . . . yet this threatened to shake us both.

Before I had only introduced the ideas of Waverly to him. I'd brought him into my version of it. Dragged him through what I wanted to and left out the parts that to him were all too real. I had never actually visited the city myself, but due diligence and research paired me with a keen ability to world build for him. The effect worked. I'd scarred him. Likely permanently.

I returned to my packing. I had only hours before the sun dropped and I caught that plane, with or without Clint.

:(:):(:):

"I knew you couldn't resist," Clint Barton growled bitterly at me. He snatched the seat belt, yanked it across his middle, and stabbed it into the holder.

A snicker came from the back seat.

"Shut up! You are the absolute opposite of helpful!" Clint exclaimed, whirling around in the passenger seat to glare at the elf behind him. "Why did you even get in the car? This is my time. Get out."

Rinon, flushing, glanced into the rearview mirror at me.

So, this hadn't exactly gone as I planned. Des Moines proved every day that my sanity was slowly spinning out of my own hands. Classes continued to pummel my brain, and with the promise of a weekend free to travel at will I, much to Clint Barton's chagrin, had decided to do exactly what he expected all along. Waverly was 2 hours and 23 minutes away. A rental car in town costed around $60, and frankly my curiosity was stronger than the daggered looks he sent to me or the idle threats he filled my heart in.

At first, Barton refused to get into the car at all. It took all night for Rinon to convince him to come on the flight to Iowa one week ago, and most of the flight to convince him to stay. When the time came to pile in for the Waverly road trip, Rinon was more than willing. I had hours of mindless travel ahead and in all that time I could spend hours working on Rinon's new storyline. He planned to be as supportive of forward process as possible, so long as I didn't get hung up on the scene where I rot the flesh off his side. I enjoyed the character building in it; he had quite enough of my sadistic ways. As if expecting Clint to change his mind, Rinon climbed into the back seat and left the passenger door open. Time, and curiosity, was all it took for Clint to get in.

I shared a glance with Rinon and then looked over at Clint. "I have time for both of you."

"Like hell you do," Clint snapped back. "There is no cruise control on this car and your phone's GPS is hardly working. You need to spend every waking second not getting the two of us killed on this stupid joy ride. You do not need to be off twitter-pating in Elfland while I am sitting here getting my heart pumped out of my chest!" Clint's attention shifted to Rinon. "Out."

"But . . ." Rinon began to say, but suddenly, the back door opened again. Three others squeezed into the back seat, squishing Rinon against the side door. The first two, a man and a woman, were new to me. I had only briefly spent time with them, after an interesting dinner I had the night before, and to this point referred to them as the Titans.

Clint's anger flared. "Who are you?"

I answered, "They started a war with two online factions, destroyed each other's battlements, raided, pillaged, and stole, and were in command of over seven hundred real souls at a time."

Clint slowly turned his head toward me.

"They are my friends, ok!" I exclaimed in exacerbation. "You should have been sitting there while they talked. It was a fascinating discussion. There was a fire place. He has cancer. She was a spy. I'm thinking of playing Dungeons and Dragons with them. I thought I might just write a little short story—"

"NO!" he cut me off with a gesture. "No, no, and no. You don't even know how to play that and this," he pointed at the two, "Is not a short story. This is like Interview with a Vampire!" To the couple he shouted, "Get out!"

Both rolled their eyes, popped the door back open, and returned to the pavement outside. The third, yet unnamed newcomer, scooted over in the new space provided. He smiled at Rinon, who smiled back warmly in recognition.

Clint looked up and down the man in a slow, judging, eye. Then his expression faded to me.

"Seriously?" he demanded.

"His name is Sam, and I am still figuring—"

"HE'S ME!" Barton shouted, pointing at Sam. "He has my face. He looks like me. He knows Rinon. WHAT THE ACTUAL-"

"I'm trying it out!" I snapped back, slamming my palm on the steering wheel. "I haven't figured him out yet and I'm still trying to work on things. I can't publish you, as you, under me because I didn't make you. Anyone is allowed to write you. Sam is my you."

"That entire last sentence didn't make any sense," Clint pointed out.

"When did you become such a bitter buddy?" I asked.

"After you turned me into a drunken harlot who sleeps with all Tony's old girls," he smirked back.

I deserved that. I sighed, calmly lifting my shoulders, inhaling, and exhaling a slow and even breath. Turning around in the driver seat, I looked at Rinon and Sam. "Clint has a point. This really is our trip. I'll work with you two tomorrow, OK? I think he needs this alone time."

Sam groaned audibly and extracted himself from the back seat. Rinon paused slightly longer. I could see the sadness weighing on him. He opened his mouth as if to protest once more, but stopped when Clint flicked an overly dramatic hand. Conceding, Rinon reached forward, squeezed Clint's shoulder supportively, and whispered a few elven words. After that, he was gone. I waited as the gaggle of muses pulled away from the sides of the car. I revved the engine, set the GPS, and slid the rental car into gear. It wasn't long before we were on the road and the hotel receded into the depths of the horizon.

"What did he say?" Clint asked after a time, his focus on the distant hills rolling past the windows.

"I don't know," I replied, honestly.

"You made him. Wrote him."

"I don't know everything about him yet," I said. "That takes time. Especially for characters you do create, not just ones you pick up in a random Applebee's like you. I don't know where he came from or if he even knows that himself. I don't know why he fights so hard to save those around him or why he lets other ones die. I spend time with him to learn who he is. You were easier. People came before me with suggestions of what you are, where you're from, and what you do. With Rinon, I still have to figure that out myself."

"So . . ." his head lolled to the side, crystal blues eyes lasering into mine, "You're saying I'm easy?"

I snorted and hurriedly covered my mouth in embarrassment. It wasn't enough to prevent him from laughing heartily at me.

"You know what? That gives me an idea about Sam," I said, pulling off to the side of the road and snatching my phone.

"What?!"

My hand snapped at him, "Oh, hush, it'll only take a minute. I just have to call the editor."

"I am literally sitting right here, and you are thinking about someone else," he gaped.

I held the receiver for a moment and said, "It's because you are ever-so inspirational and frankly, Sam is you, so get over yourself."

* * *

* * *

I hope you enjoy! proceed to next chapter:)


	6. Waverly 2

**CHAPTER 6: WAVERLY 2**

My eyes were constant ping-pong-balls as they snapped across the cab of the car at my passenger, back to the road, and then drifted again to him. Every moment the city we'd driven hours to see approached. The first signs for the Cedar Rapids airport sent him into a sweat and forced him to drag his palms along his black trousers. His Adam's apple bobbed every time he swallowed against the constriction in his throat. One that was increasing its intensity every moment.

The last time he had been in Waverly, for me, was in the end of our story Where the Worlds Burn. He had been through so much already. Near death experience. The loss of his brother. Arrow—I refused the urge to remind him of it all for, surely now, he already knew it. I'd sent him to the small town in the company of all the Avengers so that he might once and for all bury his brother's ashes with the rest of the family he had lost. Clint was recovering a fractured ankle at the time, and a torn rotator cuff on top of his ACL. I'd really walloped him on that journey.

The team landed in Cedar Rapids and drove north, along the same road we now journeyed together. They went to his orphanage first and met the old woman responsible for raising Clint right. Despite the fact he later ran away from that home, he still had fond thoughts of the woman. After meeting her, he went home. It was a house that existed on a plodding dirt road off the edge of the town river. He'd often snuck out and went fishing with the neighborhood kids his father didn't approve of even though they never caught anything of merit. To kids that never mattered.

The house was dilapidated. Most of the walls bowed inward and everything was caked in dust or the desecrated remains of long dead roaches. A bottle of Jack Daniels, half full, was shoved beneath the edge of his father's mattress as if waiting for the old man to return home to drink it. Clint didn't stay in the house long and neither did the rest of the Avengers.

Where they did bring Barney Barton's ashes was a long twist in a wicked highway only a few miles from the Barton family home. Past the tombstones of an old graveyard, the bend was notoriously dangerous. A single, prominent oak tree stood at its worst point and collected, over time, the shattered remains of the cars which collided into its bark every few months or years. There'd always been talk of taking it down and re-doing the drainage ditch directly below it.

Clint took his brother there. Two arrows pierced the top of that tree. Landmarks or headstones, it didn't matter which, stood as a reminder of the lives closest to Clint which were lost on that bend of road. He added a third arrow that day, this time for Barney.

The writing was good, solid, and based on fact. Clint accepted the story of his life like he'd done with everything else we'd worked so hard on through the years. He knew how much it meant to our readers and he'd take the hit if it meant he'd learn something or grow from it. This time, it wasn't Google Earth, or aerial photography out to inspire us. This was real. And we were going to experience it together.

Waverly.

My foot slid from the gas as the first sign roared past us so fast I nearly missed it entirely. I craned my head back, only for a split second, and leaned forward again. I could hear the hitch in his breath.

"It's ok," I told him, setting my hand on his knee and squeezing. "Do you want someone other than me? We can pull over and I can call Tony or—"

"Just drive," Clint whispered.

I nodded carefully and caught up with traffic again. The GPS announced we were only a few miles out from the town center and soon, more signs filled the highway.

Waverly, 3 miles.

Approaching Waverly- Exit Right.

Left Lane Minneapolis.

Welcome To—

I slowed again and, before Clint could realize what I was doing, I wrenched the steering wheel out of the line of cars, and pulled us to a rocky stop along the side of the road. He braced his hand on the dashboard and cut a glance at me, preparing the roaring argument to come but he was too late. I was already out of the car.

I moved around the front hood and crossed the side of the road to see the sign up close. A deep gully separated it from the roadway, preventing me from going all the way to it. The passenger window rolled down behind me as Clint hung himself out.

"It's a sign," he pointed out.

I snapped a picture of it.

He rolled his eyes. "Seriously, get back in the car. You are going to get hit and die, and then I'm going to die, and I don't want to. So, get back in."

"That's not how it works," I replied. I turned around, flipped the view of my camera and took an unashamed selfie with the Waverly Welcomes You road sign.

"When an author dies, their character dies too. That is how it works," Clint shot back.

"You aren't mine," I said, posing and taking another. I looked terrible in all of them but for the first time I was having fun. "You belong to someone else, and are officially a published, popular canon. If I die, someone else picks you up. That's how it works." Having had my fill, I dropped my phone back into a pocket. "Rinon would die."

Clint lifted his sunglasses from his eyes. "Why? Because you made him?"

"And he isn't published yet," I nodded. Checking the flow of traffic, which was laughable given there was none, I pulled open the driver side door and climbed back into the car. Clint watched me with an air of confusion.

"When he gets published though—I mean, when you finish the book, and he's out there, then he doesn't die, right? Someone else picks him up."

"Maybe," I replied. "I mean, I hope so. That's why I'm working so hard. If other people like him, then they might write stories about him, like I write about you. Writing one story down in a book once and never thinking about it ever again doesn't make your character immortal, Clint. You have to make people care about them. Make them want to carry them around or play with them or just sit and hang out with them for coffee or something. If I never get him there, then who he is, who he really is, dies with me. I don't want that for him."

"Does he know that?" Clint asked, his voice becoming solemn.

"He does. I think you knew it once too, when you were first made. You've been fortunate that you haven't had to think about it all that much since then."

I pulled my seatbelt back on and checked the GPS, mirrors, and the look on his face. I'd struck more than one cord with him this time.

"I think next time, maybe he can come along after all," he said as we pulled back onto the main road and headed deep into the heart of Waverly, Iowa.

:(:):(:):

"The directions say 2nd Avenue, that's what you wrote. Second Ave, past the hospital on the left, and it should be right here," Clint said, reading from my phone as I drove down the city streets on the way to our first location. I had spent time that morning perusing all my old writings about the town and the research I had put into it. Good fortune meant I had a decent road map. My past self, and my present one if I was being fair, couldn't help but keep meticulous details of even fictionalized places. Often the roadmaps I built into a story were based on true fact, and in this case actual directions.

We traveled down 2nd Avenue together, watching for the telltale signs that led me to write about Clint's boyhood orphanage. Nearly at once, the sign for the hospital appeared on our left and, panning right, we waited to see the steeples of an old church.

It took a few lights but finally, bingo.

"Oh my God, it's huge," Clint whispered. "I mean it's changed. It was so small before. Look at it. And there's the white house on the corner. The stairs too."

I let out a small whoop of delight and pointed us directly toward it. We parked across the street and sat, admiring the behemoth of brick and mortar for a time.

The city had changed since last I'd written about it. Walmart moved in along with the largest Super Target either of us had ever seen. Where once one-lane roads and small country cul-de-sacs formed most of the town square, now sprawling developments and oddity shops converged on the town center. Life flourished in the little county.

The Lutheran church stood proudly on the backdrop of progress and the flowing Cedar River. I snapped a picture of the spires and kept the car forward toward the white house standing on the corner lot. At one time, this had been the Waverly Children's Home. The red bricks around the stoop hadn't changed, though someone had fixed the porch though neglected the chipping paint. No longer the place of boisterous children, it seemed vacant now.

"Good for them," Clint said, looking at it. He'd poured a lot of money into improvements for the place, money that likely went into the creation of the church behind it and the many dormitories for the orphans it housed. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

I continued forward, spinning us around the frontage street along the church and sliding into a vacant lot. Across from the small roadway was a new park. It had everything a child could want. Jungle gyms, swings, new mulch, tumble blocks, and it sat right on the edge of Cedar River. I sent a devious look at my passenger and climbed out of the car.

Again, his eyes rolled. This time, though, he wasn't to be left behind. Seeing the city in the daylight like this, right in the full swing of progress had somehow alleviated those fear pounding through the center of his chest. He paused beside the passenger door and watched as I bounded my way over to the park and water side. After a time of internal debate, he joined me.

"Don't get hit by a car," he warned again as I crossed the road. It was an ever-present fear for him. Likely because of his parents' history, and due in no small part to my constant need to not stay still or in relative safety. He caught up to me after a short jog. We stood in the mulch together, looking out over the river.

The sun was still rising. Its light blinded us through the tree limbs swaying over our heads in a brisk Iowa wind. Snow, as hardy as granite, clung intermittently to the ground and formed occasional thick sheets of ice over stone. The water moved gently in the wind. No peaks of white foam formed and, even the Canada Geese seemed undeterred about enjoying the sunny day and cool water. We stood there for a time and basked in it all. Slowly, I could feel him relaxing.

"It's so different than I remember it," Clint said, his head shaking. "It's actually kind of beautiful. Quiet. It was quiet before, but not like this. This is—"

"Peaceful," I told him.

He nodded.

"If you like that, you're going to love this," I smiled. Tugging his hand, we returned back to the car, climbed in, and shot like a dart off down the road. This time, we didn't have far to go. Just around the corner of first street, we hopped onto Route 3 and got back off just as quick. Road improvements, the kind designation for construction, blocked most of the main strip of shops and boutiques I had planned for us to visit. Still, there was public parking available and I had a plan for just what we might do when we got there.

I found a decent location quickly enough. Jumping out of the rental car this time, I paused to free my tangle of messy hair from the bun I'd put it in. Clint stood cautiously across from me and waited.

"Great, who are we meeting?" he accused. He knew full well I was the least fastidious person when it came to my own grooming.

"No one that you know."

Making a show of it, he turned in a circle around himself, crossed over to me, spun me around, then circled the car. His eyes narrowed. "No more muses coming out of the woodwork? Ez, you surprise me."

I lifted an eyebrow at him. "You called me Ez."

"I could call you Eva. That's your new idea isn't it? Eva Shields?"

"Eva Shields is an unashamedly, dirty minded, romance writer who enjoys unapologetic looks at her own life and is infatuated with the ideas of lemons in her work," I quipped, "I am not her."

"Yet," he pointed out slyly, leaning toward me. "You're getting there. A little bird told me you said the F word."

"That little bird broke a solemn vow of confidence and I will burn her for it."

Clint's smile broadened as he fell into step beside me. He was right, though I never wanted to admit it. I had been many writers in my life, almost as many as I have had muses. A long time ago, I was the Cross Crocodile, a persona who pretended to be an Australian surfer babe posting stories on her time away from the big waves. Following that, I became PeachTao- the expert on all things DragonBall Z, Star Wars, and Green Hornet. Now I was Ezra Cross. Clint knew why, of course. When I sought out to work on Rinon's original series it was with the understanding that female authors rarely, if ever, had the same clout in epic fantasy writing as a male author might. So, I changed my sex, my writing style, I became someone new entirely to give Rinon the chance he deserved.

But that didn't mean I wasn't still changing. For a brief moment I was Solara, a jilted fantasy lover who wrote deep, dark, epics about Clint's underworld. Now, while the ideas of Rinon's epics poured through me, I couldn't help wandering again. Eva Shields was new. She was bolder than I, someone who could tell a tale about how not taking a crap nearly ended in her death, and then get away with such nonsense. Eva wanted to write slutty romances with hulking men who were secretly good but pretended to be bad. She wanted love, respect, and to break free of societal chains. She was dangerous. Ezra was not.

We walked around the alley together, followed the path of the colorfully painted buildings, and arrived on the main strip. I led on. Knowing that I wasn't going to win the argument despite my best defenses, I abandoned the matter entirely and entered the second shop down the road. Clint hurried to catch up. He held the door open for the both of us and craned his head back to read the sign.

Jim's Sport Shop.

His eyebrow raised. "Ez, what are we doing here?" he asked.

I ignored him and headed for the back of the store, forcing Barton to tag along with me. He was as memorized as a child in a toy shop. Everywhere he looked were the taxidermized hides of deer, turkeys, moose, and Elk. A pronghorn leaped in a forever frozen motion from the top of the overhanging wall while the entire hide of a bear stretched from one corner to another. We passed shelves of bullet casings and racks of rifles. Aisle after tiny aisle of fishing lures snagged at our clothing until I came to stop, at last, by the back of the store. Clint spun around to see over my head and, there, he finally got the point.

"You brought me to an archery shop?" he asked, stunned.

I raised my hand silently at him and moved to the walls of gear and arrows. It was hard walking around in public with a muse cajoling you. Someone in the world, usually fellow authors, saw this as a sign of kinship. Those tiny glances one shares with the invisible world beside them suddenly don't make a person crazy. It makes them creative. And those were the best kind of people to have in one's company. Here I was surrounded by the alpha-male types. Men who would not understand a random lady walking into their shop and conversing with what they perceived as thin air. Laymen couldn't see the magic of creativity. That was an author's world, and one only shared through written word.

"Can I help you?" the shop keep asked.

I made some excuse to him. Told him how I was an archer, true, who was looking for a bow, also true, and I needed something of a lighter pound draw due to an old injury, again, true. What I did not tell him was that my heart was skipping beats inside my chest thinking that I, a lowly creative artist, might actually purchase a bow in the hometown of my archery hero, Hawkeye himself, and the treasure said thing forever.

I spent some time talking particulars, price points, and the like. Fortunately, some authors make excellent conversationalists and I was just such an author. I knew a great deal about the archery world which came even before Clint entered my life. I'd been in indoor and outdoor national tournaments, toured the eastern seaboard and won awards in archery, all before I entered my doctorate. My command for the profession allowed me several good options of equipment he had in stock and as I stood considering them, the owner asked,

"Would you like to try them out?"

Hold still my giddy heart.

Clint nearly had to restrain me as we mounted the stairs to the second floor. Perhaps I am an idiot, which he would ceaselessly point out. I had entered a shop which I had never been in before, met someone who brandished weapons, who then took me to a dark second floor, alone, to see their archery range first hand. Of course, I went along. How could I resist the idea of shooting a bow for the first time I years in the hometown of the master archer himself?

Clint brooded in the corner, checking exits, the man who brought us up, and looking for any indications that I was going to be kidnapped and forced to work as a sex slave in Argentina. While he brooded, I slid up to the archery line in the second floor range and admired everything. I had been in some unique ranges before, especially a basement in Queens. This was easy.

Jim, the shop keep, handed me a bow and three arrows, stepped off the line with his yellow lab who'd followed us, and stood with his hands in his pockets watching me get back into the rhythm of shooting again. I hadn't lifted a bow since 2015. My excitement overwhelmed me and, for only a brief moment, Clint faded.

The arrows struck true. Precision, more than accuracy, drove me on as round after round, I sent sailing into the reinforced wall. Briefly, Jim mentioned having something in pink, to which my increasingly overwhelmed nerve endings heartily agreed to trying out. Jim vanished down the stairs to retrieve it, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Clint pushed off the wall across from me and approached. A smile playing in the corners of his lips. "You suck," he said.

I smiled too. "I haven't done this in a while."

"You can't even hit the target."

"I blame the sight on the bow. It's not adjusted for me."

"Or you're just not good at this."

"Maybe," I leaned forward and tapped the end of his nose. "But I don't care. Because I am shooting a bow, made in Waverly, at a Waverly Archery range, and that is all I care about."

"And the color pink," he said.

"I just wanted to get rid of him so I could take pictures without him judging me," I replied without missing a beat, and plucked my phone from my pocket.

Clint scoffed, shaking his head as he watched me enjoy the fantasy playing out all around me. It wasn't often he saw me like this anymore, and that fact became strikingly clear the longer we spent together in this place. I hadn't been happy, truly happy, since before he returned to me in that little barroom not long ago. I was suffering then, spiraling, dropping down a ravine I could not easily climb out of and regardless of the fact that being in this place brought so many conflicting memories to his head, he didn't struggle with letting me have my moment. I needed this.

For half an hour we stood together in Jim's shop, shooting targets with borrowed bows and chatting about prices, tech, and the modifications on recurves vs compounds. We talked about how bows needed to look pretty just as much as they needed to function, to which we both laughed in conjunction. Clint followed me down the stairs again and, there, I made my move.

I laid the bows on the counter. Neither were quite what I needed to get back into the swing of archery again and Jim could tell that. I did point out the arrows in their bins across from us and asked,

"Can I buy an arrow from you?"

Clint's eyebrow raised and he gave me a scrunched look. I had arrows. I had plenty of them and buying a single one was useless.

Jim figured the same. "We usually sell them in bundles of six or twelve. Can I ask what you want one for?"

I smiled. "It'll sound funny to you. But I collect arrows. I want one for every place I've been, and especially for this place. It means a lot to me."

Jim smiled.

Clint shook his head, knowing full well I'd hooked him.

The shop keep reached beneath the counter and pulled out a large bucket of arrows and set the all down for me. "Ma'am, you just go a head and pick one you like. You can keep it."

* * *

Last chapter in this part next!


	7. Waverly 3 -Final-

**CHAPTER 7: Waverly 3**

"You're good. I knew you were good, but, hell, you're good," Clint commended when we returned to the car. I was beaming ear-to-ear. My newly pilfered arrow rested on the back seat in all its glory. It had a carbon fiber shaft, expensive to anyone interested in buying arrows, and the traditional purple fletches I'd come to associate with Clint himself. I knew it wouldn't cost me a penny but I didn't like owing people anything in life. I picked a finger tab too, a glove style one that I didn't use myself, but I knew my nephew might. Jim tried to convince me out of it in favor of something lesser priced, but he'd been a good man letting me go up and shoot my heart out. I paid him all the same.

It was at that particular juncture I realized my credit card was missing. Clint knew full well I'd lose my life if it wasn't so intimately woven in my body. We spent the next hour searching the car, the sidewalk, the little overhang to the Cedar River waterfall, and then we went back and searched the archery range. We didn't find it there, though we did give Jim a laugh over the whole situation.

I drove us back to the parking lot behind the Lutheran church and, there, found my credit card laying vacant in the street along with the key card to my hotel room. Clint couldn't even laugh. Mostly, because he wasn't at all surprised. I'd once taken a trip through a mountain pass and accidentally taken a picture with a bear that I didn't realize was behind me. Losing a credit card in the street, asking and receiving a free arrow, then finding my credit card still lying untouched in the street was on par with the majority of my life.

With my fantasy of being a Waverly archer fulfilled, I headed on to the part of our journey that Clint was least enticed by. On the opposite side of Cedar River, the roads became thin, winding, and long. Small dirt offshoots sprouted in every direction from the riverview road and fed deep into the backwoods and hills of Waverly. It was there, in those trailers along the river shores that Clint Barton was born and raised. It was there, his childhood turmoil's formed.

The joviality of our adventure thus far slowly disintegrated into a cloud of swirling dark emotion. I could taste it in the air. Clint's shoulder's tensed whether he wanted them to or not. He sat back and tried, slowly, to feed calm back into his nerves.

Cedar Lane NE had been a road paved by the occasional traffic which traveled down its way. Or, at least that was how Clint remembered it. Even before we reached the lane, he began to sit more forward and take in the sights around him with a keener interest.

"It's really changed," he whispered. "The houses are all new. They weren't like this before. This was all open land or trees and brush piles. No one came back here."

"The city seems nice," I said.

He nodded absently, glancing out his window. "It's not the same anymore. It's weird how that works. There, down there, across from—is that a dock? That's where the road is."

I followed his direction and we slowed to a stop in the middle of the lane. What had once been dirt paths was now a paved thoroughfare. Not a large one, but big enough to fit two lanes of travel and accommodate the shoreline directly left of us. Clint rolled down his passenger window and stared out at the houses.

"It isn't here," he said.

"What isn't?"

He turned back to me. "My house. It's gone. The house I mean. I used to live right where that white house is now. The chain link fence over there, and the yellow house, was Mr. Rivendell's. But the house isn't there anymore. It's gone. I've never seen that brown house before. It's new too."

We sat for a time, looking at the row of three houses and watching the water run along the new docks across the roadway. It took a while for Clint to absorb it all. The place he hated, the home he feared, with the memories that kept him buried in the past had somehow released a hold on him. The house was gone. Waverly had moved on from it.

From where we sat, staring across the river Clint could see the tops of the church steeple on the Lutheran home. He shook his head.

"It seems so close. As a kid it felt like an entire world away and it's just right there. I can't believe it."

"Are you ok?" I asked gently.

"Yeah . . . it's weird . . but yeah. I kind of want to be mad that they took my house away but I wanted to burn it down. I actually feel better about all this." He looked over at me. "Let's go to the last place on the list."

:(:):(:):

"Take it slow. There's a lot of drop offs over here and the last thing I need is you in a ditch the same place my parents died." Clint said, his arm spanning the distance between us. His hand squeezed my shoulder protectively. I did as he instructed and eased my foot onto the brake.

We had turned back on Cedar Lane and entered 2nd Avenue again, taking it all the way to the where it merged into Bremer Road. There, I could hear Clint's heart beat beginning to quicken in his chest. I'd read about my notes on the area. Steve had driven Clint here. They passed a cemetery first, and continued straight to where the road curved sharply. It was there that a summer storm made the roads slick in rain and flooded the drainage ditches. An old oak sprouted at the corner. It was that oak tree I determined to find. So keen was my focus, I nearly missed the cleared-out land that emerged surprisingly fast on our right.

"The cemetery," I whispered, focusing on the headstones.

Clint looked over at me. "You're surprised?"

I nodded, slowing the car to a stop on a small patch of dirt beside the entrance. I sat looking at it for a time.

"I wrote about it," I said, "I just—I didn't remember it being real. I thought it wasn't real. I thought I made the cemetery up."

"I told you, you were good. Look at life out here imitating you. Fancy that," Clint said.

"Is not," I said, shaking my head. "I just really didn't think it would be here."

I panned across to the road beyond the cemetery, checking the winding path on the map between Clint and me. The suicide bend was coming up fast. I wanted time to look at it. Really take it in. I waited for a while to let even the distant cars pass me by and, once it was clear, we started down the path. I drove slowly. Following first the small bend and the dropping speed once more as the sharper, dangerous curve took over. There were no signs. No warnings. No yellow marked caution posts and… more distressingly… no tree.

"Where is it?" Clint asked the air, maneuvering up and down as if it might be hiding beneath some scrub brush. We could see a sharp drop off on either side of the roadway, without a guard rail protecting it. Down the gully were drain pipes, ditches, and fields of old, iced over snow. The curve in the road came and went faster than we expected. I turned around, and followed it back the other way.

"Pull over," Clint said suddenly.

I found a driveway and pointed into it, then flashed the hazard lights. I looked up at him.

"This was the direction they were going when they died," he said.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, and glanced out at the winding road.

"Steve, Tony, and the rest of us, we came in the other way. Like we did just now. We didn't turn around. We didn't have to go this way."

"We don't have to go back," I told him. "We can turn around here. Leave."

"The tree's gone."

"I know."

"They must have taken it down. Been threatening to for years. They took out the drain where it used to be. The one where my mother died. They took everything out." He sat still for a time, thinking. He took another steadying breath and offered a single nod. "Ok. Let's go."

I put the car in gear, cut the hazard lights, and checked to make sure no one was coming for a while. With the area clear, we drove ahead and made a long, slow, pass to the bend in the road where the tree roots still clung and the road turned deadly. On we went, just ahead of the second turn where another dirt pull-over sat. I turned into it and put the car in park.

"What are you doing?" Clint asked.

I reached into the back seat and grabbed the arrow off the cushion. I climbed out of the car and walked over to the bend in the roadway. There, I planted the arrow. I looked back at him.

"It isn't perfect," I said. "It's one, and not three. And it's not in the right place. But I think it's a good memorial anyway."

:(:):(:):

I sat in the center of the bed, covered head to toe in my new Waverly Walmart purchases. From the Iowa Hawkeyes cotton-knit tee shirt to the gaudy yellow Hawkeyes pants, I looked like a walking poster board for the local collegiate team. Clint thought I was hilarious. Partly . . . or mostly . . . because if asked what sport the Iowa Hawkeyes played, I wouldn't be able to answer. I simply didn't know.

The carbon fiber arrow and the purple fletches sat on the end of the bed. Clint refused to let me leave it behind, a fact I am grateful for now. He hasn't formulated how to get it smuggled onto the plane, though checked luggage seems the most reasonable method. In the checkout-line at the superstore he bought himself an Infinity gauntlet complete with Soul Gems and a special, hidden gem, he must dino-dig out of a giant ball of dirt using only a toy chisel and a miniature Mjolnir. The hotel floor is covered in sand.

Rinon laid on the bed beside me. Gazing at the page as I continue to type and consider the daylong trip through Clint Barton's past and Waverly's future. It is never easy to return home, especially when that home changes so much. I think, this time, Clint may have a very different sort of adventure if he ever is forced to return to that small town which, now, is bustling wo much more than days past. He might visit Jim, and the yellow dog who minds the archery shop or he might get dragged over the rapids of Cedar River during a frosting winter.

Either way, the only one truly safe from what inspiration might come next is no one at all.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed this part!


	8. Lessons in Cooking

Katie MacAlpine: Is that it? That's the end of the story? I was just getting into it. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted. The end? NEVER! **(and welcome to the Hawkeye Family!)**

M. Klindt What sport the Hawkeye's played for! Ohh...you just stirred up a hornet's nest. Any right minded Iowan, much less from those living within a 100miles of Waverly, Iowa would bulk when you defame the biggest college in the state. Wartburg College in Waverly doesn't even come close. The Hawkeye is a legacy: State bird and mascot. Clint probably bleeds black and gold as I do! Hugs! Michelle ( **hahahaha. I have officially followed the Hawkeyes on FB just for you:)**

Jesuslovesmarina I can't get over the fact that Jim had a yellow lab...COINCIDENCE?! And I'm glad you didn't leave the arrow behind :D On to the next adventure! **(OMG the cutest dog on the planet!)**

Barton-Lover- Iowa Hawkeyes play college football. Omg... I checked facebook out before reading this so all the photos were in my mind as I read what you wrote. It was totally awesome. I've always dreamed of actually going to the places I research and write about to see how well my fiction works in real life. Its cool to see it work out so well for you. Love your work so much. Amanda B. **(Thank you so very much for the kind words! The trip was one of the best I have ever taken in my life)**

ELOSHAZZY Memorials are to remind others that you were there! **(exactly!)**

Batghost This is great! Clint has finally had the chance to move on from his past. Waverly has left the past behind, and now, so does Clint ( **you're there every step of the way!)**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 8**

The kitchen draped in waves of startling lights while beams of dust faded in and out of view. The pan sizzled as the half-dozen eggs cooked in bubbling, boiling, repose against the crusty remnants of the first unsuccessful attempt. These, too, were fried black. Another failed attempt though their creator continued to diligently flip and fold them over.

Clint Barton was perched, as usual these days, on the edge of the counter so he might observe the failed attempts of his counter-muse. The silent elf, Rinon, could feel the man's presence as easily as he felt mine. Yet, undeterred by either of us, he continued to work diligently on his creation. Clint looked on, saying nothing. Rinon was trying his best to prove that he'd learned the intricacies of fry pans and oven tops. Smoke rose around him. It caught in dark swirls under the hood where an over-worked fan hurriedly attempted to snatch the smoke away. The small window to his left was drawn open, by Clint, yet even that wasn't enough to prevent the sunlight from being choked out by the charcoal eggs.

Occasionally Clint turned his attention toward me. I occupied the lone chair in the room, my computer perched on my lap, as I typed in hurried keystrokes across an open page. The faster I worked the darker Rinon's expression turned. I was working with him today, despite Clint's attempts to drag me away to an Avenging land. After the long trip to Waverly together I was happy to see the two of them finding some common ground at last. Fireworks existed, still, but they were tampered down to sparklers rather than full blown Gandalf reactors on Hobbit Celebration days. When my fingers paused, and I sat staring blankly at a long page of white with precious few lines, the cooking Elf would pause too.

The eggs sizzled and fried as his face cast away from his work and considered me from across the room. He didn't smile. Very rarely did I ever see that expression in him. He motioned to Clint with the end of the spatula and then swung it toward me. A word came mumbling out of his mouth but it was too low for me to hear.

"Rinon says 'Linnor'," Clint said.

I looked up. "What about him?" I asked.

"I don't know. He doesn't say more than two words to me, but I think he's trying to tell you to start somewhere else in the story. You've got writer's block bad. Doesn't he talk at all in your story?"

A grin tugged at the corner of my lips. "A little. I guess Linnor isn't a bad place to go next. He does seem to worm his way into people's company doesn't he?"

Rinon nodded and returned to stirring the second bad batch of eggs. Why he hadn't given up on them yet, neither of us knew.

"Who's he again? Didn't I meet him once?" Clint asked. Rinon sent me a single quick look but did not speak himself, forcing Clint to turn around in place to stare at me as well.

"The Lakeheed Palace in Alfheimr. You've been there once," I replied.

Clint's eyebrows raised. "Oh, right. I remember Linnor. He tried making moves on Natasha and he rode around the place on a hawk. That guy?"

Now I laughed, "Linnor is charismatic. He get's himself into a lot of trouble that way."

Clint hiked a thumb at Rinon. "Yeah, well, I think if you don't fix his cooking, then we are both going to starve to death. Can't you write that in? Make us a five-star chef or something in here? I'll be honest, I can't cook either and Natasha is fit to kill us both. So . . ."

I shrugged as I pushed the keyboard away now. "I can't change who Rinon is. He can't cook, so he can't cook. I don't have as much control over this as you think."

Across from the both of us, Rinon lifted the pan from the flame and scrutinized his terrible work. He took a fork, dipped it into the mush and charcoal, and despite his better judgement, he tasted it. Pan in hand, he lunged across the kitchen and proceeded to spit the poorly made eggs out in the sink. He glared at the pan.

"It isn't the pan's fault!" Clint snapped at him. "And no one told you to wear the apron with it. Geez, you look ridiculous!"

Rinon set the pan in the sink and glanced down at himself. When he first set out to try and cook breakfast for everyone, he'd grabbed my apron off the hook by the door and, without a second thought, put it one instantly. There he stood. In the light of the kitchen window and swirling smoke rings sporting a knit floral blue apron from chest to thighs. He couldn't possibly appear more emasculated. At the time, neither Clint nor I decided to call him out for it. Frankly, it was more interesting to watch as the elf pinned his too-long hair back and set about, taking a full twenty minutes, to turn on the stove.

Again, Clint looked desperately at me. "Please fix this."

"I can't," I insisted. "Rinon is who he is. I can't change his personality anymore than I can change yours. The longer we're together the more I can learn about him and he can show me who he really is."

"An apron-wearing, pointy-eared Vulcan mute?" Clint asked.

Rinon glanced over. He raised one eyebrow in a perfect Nimoy expression.

"He isn't mute, he chooses not to talk. There's a difference," I said matter-of-factly. "Besides, I—" my voice cut short when the phone laying between us suddenly switched on. Usually I kept the silent on as a rule, to prevent being disturbed from anything so mundane as a notification to actual calls from people I liked. Thus, was the life of an introvert. Even calls we might like to take we often didn't and dreaded the voicemails of. This one I recognized immediately.

In the kitchen, Rinon froze. He fed on my emotion more than I liked and it was a habit I hadn't broken between us. My hand retracted from the device as hurriedly as I reached for it. Terror, as I had never felt, crept through my veins. I could sense the pounding of my heart rushing behind my ears, a flash of heat and explosion of red colored my cheeks.

Concern overwhelming him, Clint slid down from the counter and approached me. He crouched down to where I had abandoned the phone and read the screen. His eyes narrowed into daggers and he looked at me.

"It's him isn't it?" Clint demanded.

Suddenly the joviality of our morning cooking began to crumble all around me. I could feel the air yanking out of me one stolen breath at a time. My chest suddenly ached as panic steamrolled in.

"Ez," Clint exclaimed, leaning down over me, his broad hands pressing into the small of my back. "Ez, talk to me—Don't do this, don't go there, Ez, look at me!"

I couldn't lift my eyes. The internal pain was like a punch to my gut. I shook my head as I heaved.

"It'll be ok," he whispered, brushing my hair away from my face. He'd never met the man who ruined me. The one who scooped out every good thing within me and left only the empty hollow, a fractured shell, behind. When Clint found me again in that old eatery of ours I was nearly unrecognizable. The scars I bore were fresh and unhealed. Overtime he'd nearly put me back together. Now this? This threatened to pull those fissures apart.

"Don't let him into your head," Clint continued to whisper, using his strength to keep me intact. "Block him out. He doesn't matter anymore. He can't hurt you anymore. You have us. We'll always protect you."

Rinon dropped the spatula on the kitchen counter and rounded the island in his apron. He lorded over the phone, bent over, lifted it into his hand, and glared at the number.

"Don't answer it," Clint snapped at him. "Block the number. Delete it. I don't care what, just get rid of it!" To me, his voice lowered to a ghastly whisper, "How did he call you again? You changed your phone; how did he find you?"

"I don't know," I gasped.

His piercing eyes flicked up as he watched Rinon debate with the phone in his hands and what he might do with it. In the end, he crossed the room, yanked the window open, and with all his strength wound back and threw. We didn't hear where the cell phone fell or how far it went. He closed the window again with an air of finality and turned to look at the two of us. Done. Simple. Over. That's what his expression said the moment he slammed the window shut on the buzzing phone. With little more interest than that, he went back to the kitchen, picked the spatula up again, and returned to his battered cooking.

* * *

OMG I love him so much :D


	9. Shoe on the Other Foot

**CHAPTER 9**

I sat on the floor of the apartment. My computer balanced on my lap as I typed furiously across the keys. Days like these were never easy for us. They came frequently enough for Clint, after all we'd been in cohorts on his stories for years together. He knew the routine when the difficult scenes needed to be written. Now Rinon's time had come, and Clint wasn't quite sure how to handle it.

I saw Clint standing by the hallway door as he debated whether he dared to enter the bedroom. I knew he was angry with himself about how he'd treated the elf from the start, perhaps more so now that Rinon had been flat on his back for the last five hours. Clint would do anything to have Rinon back in the kitchen setting off the smoke alarm if it meant he didn't have to listen to the dull moans emerging from the bedroom door. This was the first time he'd ever had to watch someone else's story unfold. Frankly, he didn't like it.

I watched as he leaned into the room, resisting the knock along the doorway to announce his entrance should it disturb the form within. Rinon lay on the bed mostly, though overall he was too tall too fit. Sometimes I forgot how tall he was the way he tended to hunch every time he walked around. Rinon's wound was considerable. War had broken out in his story, a long, bloody war he'd fought tirelessly for days, weeks, on end. Every day he'd leave our apartment behind to step into his responsibilities once more and every night he'd stumble, exhausted through the front door with his weapons stained and his boot slathered in mud and the slobber of boars. Clint would watch as the elf dragged himself to the couch and throw himself onto it. Only seconds after he returned, he was asleep.

Now, that war was winding down. The last time Rinon brought himself back it was with a wound crushing his side and the promise of victory hard won on his lips. This time, Clint lifted him up by the loop of his trousers and carried the elf to the back bedroom. There, Rinon collapsed in a heap. He hadn't moved since.

So often Clint was the victim of my heavy heart and merciless hand. He had learned through the years that every scar I'd given him, I wore myself. Every time he failed to pull back his bowstring was a failure I too shared. Every heartbreak, every death, every pain, all mine and born on his shoulders. He'd come to grips with it. He'd understood it. Now, seeing this great task forced onto another muse, he was brought to a solemn pause. At first, the sight was too much to bear and Clint turned instantly back to the door. The wound was only getting worse. Rinon's chest had begun to cave in where the ribs fell apart.

"Oh my God," Clint whispered under his breath. A shudder moved through him as a curse slipped between Clint's lips. He sprung to his feet and cleared the room in seconds, pulling the door shut behind him. He rushed into the living room to where I sat typing. Flagrantly he motioned with his hands.

"You have to fix this!" He shouted, pointing down the hall. "Do you see him? He can't stay like that! He's dying, Ez!"

I glanced up over the top of the computer screen. "I know, I'm trying."

"Trying?! You wrote me out of worse than this in a single night, just do it again!" Clint exclaimed. He stalked over to me and threw himself down at my side to read over the pages I had already written. To him, it was obvious that no easy end to the elf's suffering was coming. His eyes lifted to mine. "What are you doing to him?"

"It wasn't my fault," I insisted, typing still. I hardly noticed the words anymore. "Whether you know it or not, Rinon's in the middle of a war. Something was bound to happen to him, and the other day it finally came to my head. I can't stop where the story wants to go, I just have to write it. And try to get him through it as fast as I can until he's better again. This isn't easy."

"How long is he going to be like this?" Clint asked.

"It'll be a little while before I can pull him through. Distractions aren't helping." I glanced at him with a knowing look.

He lifted his hands defensively. "Hey, I'm just trying to figure out how long it's going to take before he can start burning pans again. I need to prepare for that. I can't just let it be a surprise or something."

I lifted an eyebrow at him. Clint was not at all believable.

Barton sighed and got to his feet again. He rubbed his fingers through his hair and shook his head slightly. I could tell he didn't like the answer I had for him. Finally, he had grown, not attached, but perhaps fond of the strange trio Clint, the elf, and I had formed and now Clint risked losing it due to circumstance and plot. It was different when Rinon sat and nursed him while Clint dealt with ever random shooter scenario I wrote him into. It was completely different when Rinon was the one in trouble.

"Just keep writing," Clint said, staring at the abandoned hallway, "Get him out of this."

:(:):(:):

Rinon sat in the corner of the room, his long, slender fingers wrapped around the warmth of a mug Clint had given to him. I sat across from them in the confines of the solo chair, staring over my computer screen as the archer moved around the kitchen. He wore my apron and, surprisingly, Clint didn't seem to mind. He continued to unroll the thumb-sized pieces of Pillsbury cookie dough along the parchment paper cookie sheet one at a time. Occasionally he'd lift the tray for Rinon to give his thumb of approval.

"Keep drinking that," Clint said, indicating the cup Rinon slowly nursed. "I didn't slave over an entire Cambell's can and jerry-rigged can opener just for you to refuse to eat it. You need food. And sugar. And calories. You're too skinny."

I smiled as Rinon aimed to refute Clint's claim and a one-sided argument began all over again. It had been going on like this for nearly a week. It had taken longer than both Clint or I liked to get Rinon back on his feet again after the catastrophic injury he nearly let claim his life. Barton had been genuinely concerned for a time. It was true that I had killed off main characters before, never to be resurrected. Usually, their stories were simply complete and they had nothing more to reveal, leading to their sudden demise. Those moments came in a mixture of emotion: completeness, exhaustion, grief, the knowledge that the character was destined to never reemerge again. Clint had finally gotten used to the elf and the last thing he wanted was a replacement, at least, that's what he said. We both knew the truth. He liked having the elf around.

* * *

 **WARNING**

 **WARNING**

 **WARNING**

 **THE NEXT CHAPTER CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR INFINITY WAR**

 **WARNING**

 **PROCEED WITH ALL CAUTION!**


	10. PrePost Infinity War

**WARNING**

 **WARNING**

 **WARNING**

 **THE NEXT CHAPTER CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR INFINITY WAR**

 **WARNING**

 **PROCEED WITH ALL CAUTION!**

* * *

 **WARNING**

 **WARNING**

 **WARNING**

 **THE NEXT CHAPTER CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR INFINITY WAR**

 **WARNING**

 **PROCEED WITH ALL CAUTION!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 10 -Pre/Post Infinity War**

"Black or purple?" Clint asked, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with two ties dangling from his hands. He alternated brining one to his neck, pulling it away, and replacing it with the next. Still, indecision wracked through him. He shot a desperate look into the living room down the hall. "Ez! What color?!"

"It doesn't matter," I shouted back, scrolling through the movie times on my cell phone. "We don't have a lot of time. Most of the tickets are already bought out. If we want to see it today at all, we have to go soon."

Clint suddenly sprung out of the bathroom, hurried up the hall, and stared at me. "We already missed yesterday's showing and that was opening night! What do you mean? I cannot miss this movie!"

I glanced up at him, then straightened instantly. Whatever I expected to say died on the tip of my tongue. Rinon was standing by the chair next to me trying to find something in Clint's duffle bag that might fit him. After all, most of the clothes Rinon wore came from Alfheimr and with the movie theater for the latest Avengers movie likely to be filled not only in excited movie goers, but also their muses, he wanted to blend in. Original characters were taboo at times such as this. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself.

At my lack of reply, the elf turned around to find what had so quickly turned me mute. Seeing Clint, Rinon's mouth dropped open.

Clint looked down at himself and back up again. "Too much?" he asked.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and hurriedly shook my head. He was dressed to the nines. Louis Vuitton men's shoes, Armani slacks, a shirt so sleek and crisp I could cut bread with the darts. Black on black made him look better than anything I had ever dressed him in. Rinon looked down at the meager options left to him. He was taller than Clint by nearly half a foot. No matter what he chose it wouldn't fit.

"Purple tie," I said, finding my voice again. "Definitely the purple tie."

Clint nodded and tossed the black one aside. "Ok. Let's get going. I am not going to miss the only movie they've let me be in since Joss Whedon saddled me with a three kids and a farm."

:(:):(:):

"What…the actual…sh—"

"Language!" I snapped, turning sharply to the archer sitting beside me. He was poised, slack jawed, staring at the scrolling white on black screen in front of us. To my left, the sharp-eared elf, Rinon, continued to munch on his handfuls of over-salted, over-buttered popcorn that neither Clint nor I could stomach. Rinon's eyes hadn't left the movie screen since the moment we stepped into the curtained dark.

"They didn't even mention me."

"They did once," I whispered encouragingly.

"My first name. Not even Hawkeye. Not even Avenger. Just my first name and that was it. Bummed out. Retired. Off with the wife and kids as if the destruction of the entire world would mean I'd be left in peace. I'm probably a pile of ash right now. My entire family is probably a pile of ash and no one cares, not even me, apparently, because I—just—quit!"

"It isn't that bad."

His eyes narrowed. "House arrest? I am a master marksman, a spy, and I shot a helicarrier out of the sky with a single programmed arrow. Do they really think an ankle bracelet will keep me in a single location?!

"Shh!" I cautioned quietly, sitting back in the leather seats and wondering if anyone else in the crowded theater could hear him. I wasn't the lone writer here. Surely others had flocked to the movie weekend just as I had to catch a glimpse of their muses on display. No doubt Tony or Quill or even both were sitting behind us, somewhere, in that darkness watching the horror unfold just as Clint and I were.

A mumble came from the elf beside me.

Clint looked over. "What did he say?"

"Could be worse," I told him.

Clint, shocked the elf had ventured to speak at all leaned across my lap to stick his face near the elf. "How could it possibly be worse? They forgot all about me!"

Rinon shrugged one shoulder, the human habit I'd given him rearing its ugly head.

Clint's eyes narrowed and he retreated across my lap to sulk in his seat. The credits continued to scroll by in front of us while the restless theater-goers bemoaned and bewailed the fates of their favorites. It seemed an eternity would pass before the true end came and our hearts at last set to rest.

I felt an arm snake behind me. There was a gentle tug as Barton, gingerly, brought me closer to him. I felt the heat from his chest, the ripple of muscles as they expanded and contracted with every inhale, exhale, of his athletic lungs. His breath rustled the top of my head while I rested beneath his chin. Embraced, we watched together.

"They've forgotten about me," he whispered into my hair. I could hear the anguish in it. The pain he no longer tried to hide. The anger he brewed like a burning star beneath his skin. The muscles tightened, arms flexed and for a second I felt crushed beneath the weight of him and the emotion he brought. Before I could chance stopping him, he loosened like a constrictor letting go of his prey. An angled chin dropped to the side of my forehead and pressed itself there. A tear forced its way between us.

"Maybe next year," he said, the pain of it almost too much for even him to bear alone. "Maybe deleted scenes. Maybe a book—maybe something. I just don't understand what I did. What I didn't do—"

"It's not you," I whispered back, grasping his arm in mine. Beside us Rinon had stopped enjoying his theater snack and sat in silent solidarity.

"How couldn't it be me? I did everything they wanted. I bent myself in half over it. I've been part of the team since Thor, since Loki scooped me out, I saved us from Ultron, how could they just forget that." He pulled away to look into my eyes. There it was again. That same pain I saw the first time we met. The one that left him cold and shaking after Loki destroyed what good was left in him. "How could they forget me?"

A flash paused my words. I glanced down at my phone to notice the little green blinking indicator. I knew instantly what it was about. I unlocked the screen and I handed it to him to scroll through. I smiled as his eyes scanned the words and faces reflecting back at him.

Valya. JR. Discord. Michelle. Amanda. Marina. Ghost. Mac. Elo… Messages. Reviews. Facebook posts. Readings. Desperate people seeking out, reaching for a glimpse of him only to be as disappointed as he was. Readers wanting more of him. Asking for it. Begging for it. All of them echoing the same words on angered lips, an outcry of support, anger, and pain. "Where's Hawkeye?" was their rally cry as they sought out someone, anyone, who could answer and may looking to the one person they could rely on to relay their message. Someone who could reach for the one they all still cared for.

Clint looked up at me. "They're still talking to you?"

I took my phone back and nodded subtly. "I don't know why they still believe in me, but they do. They know I'll stick with you. Till the end. I don't know what it means. I don't know how far it will go, but I know you're here for me and I'm here for you. Even if the whole world forgets, you'll go on living, because I won't. I can't. You mean too much to me for that, Clint." My eyes lifted to his. "I mean that. I couldn't be here without you."

Suddenly, he moved. Clint leaned over the seat between us, spilling the drink we shared and dropping his smuggled in fruit rollups. Before I knew what had happened I was left with the warmth of where his arms encircled my body and squeezed me tightly. The embrace lasted only for a moment, then he pulled back as quickly as he moved in. His face turned away. He was probably just as surprised at himself as I was.

Rinon stood. The elf made an awkward sight with the red beanie cap shoved down over his hair and ears. The borrowed clothes, too short for his long and lanky form, rode high on his calves and short on his arms. He said nothing to me as he set his popcorn down and blocked the screen, moving in front of me. He picked me up, angled me over one seat, and sat me down in Rinon's abandoned chair while he took my seat for himself. Now, I was as far away from Clint as our chairs allowed. The elf leaned over to the archer and flicked the tip of Clint's nose.

I couldn't help snorting slightly at Rinon's sudden move of chivalry. Clint didn't laugh but he did show off his lopsided grin.

"Hell, Rinon, I didn't think you cared."

Before I could interrupt any potential escalation between the two jealous muses, a form emerged in the dark. I shouldn't have been surprised. There was only one muse that connected Rinon, Clint, and myself. I offered him a polite smile. "Thor. It's been too long."

The Asgardian crossed a hand to his chest then opened it to take in the screen at his back. "M'lady, it is an honor to see you again and to see old friends still holding strong." He smiled at the elf. "It has been too many years."

Rinon nodded and touched his shoulder.

Thor motioned over his armor plating at the screen behind him. "Have you partaken enough of this foolishness?" he asked me.

I smiled. "I think so."

"Good." Thor took the large, new ax he wielded and let it drop to the floor in front of us with a mighty CLANG! He folded his hands in front of him. "I have endured this game of theirs, the loss of my mother, my love, my brother, my father, the gaining of a sister, and loss of that sister, the explosion of my world, and the death of most of my population, all of my friends, Sif, the Warriors three, and Heimdall's abrupt disappearance or murder, I have scene the Hulk completely disrobed and my hammer has been destroyed." He took a deep breath, straightened his back, and went on. "There are a list of things that I now require. The return of my eye, my hammer, the restoration of Nidavillr, the rebuilding of Asgard, the elimination of this puny humor that has been bestowed upon my tongue and—for the glory of all Asgard," Thor pointed to his head, "My hair."

"Shit," Clint said unapologetically.

Rinon flicked him in the nose and wagged his finger.

"Seriously," Clint told him. "I thought I'd been screwed over. Jeez, Thor, that's some seriously deep shit."

"For the record, none of that was my fault," I shot back at him. To Thor I said. "I think that can be arranged."

Someone down the row cleared their throat. I leaned forward, around Clint, to see none other than Tony Stark resting in one of the theater chairs. He was slumped over his side. Blood dripped between his fingers to stain the floor around him. Weakly, he glanced over at the troop I had suddenly formed.

"Can I just mention that I am currently dying on an alien planet—alone-?" he said.

I looked up at Thor.

The Asgardian shrugged and motioned to Tony. "He goes first."

My chin bobbed in resolution. Getting my feet under me, I stood, pausing only briefly by Rinon. I tugged the sleeve of his shirt, the way he taught me he liked, and placed an encouraging whisper of ancient elvish in Rinon's ear. This brought a rare smile from him. I leaned to Barton next, planted a kiss on his cheek then squeezed Thor's arm reassuringly while I made my way closer to Tony.

As the theater began to empty, I saw all the rest of them. The muses. Waiting in their seats, anxious, concerned, some beginning to blink out of existence as their eyes turned toward me in a last ditch of desperation. Bucky. Quill. Peter Parker. Fury. Hill. T'Challa. Leaning by the stairwell leading out was Loki himself, a smirk on his face to try and hide the bluish tinge of his looks. He was just as afraid as the rest of them, though he would rather die than show it. All of them desperate, silent, watching in horror at what might become of them next. They might have to wait their turn, but in the end, everyone would get a chance to shine again.


End file.
